The Art of Dying
by Jenwryn
Summary: Kara/Leoben. This is a small, slightly odd piece which I wrote literally 15 minutes after watching Episode 3.01. Spoilers for that episode. It's from Leoben's POV and only uses what we know about him up till then. R&R.


Disclaimer: All publicly recognisable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. Original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended. Not beta read; don't shoot.

Author's Notes: Ever since Season Three of _Battlestar Galactica _came out I have been scurrying around (particularly online) with an utter terror of spoilers, which has rather put me off even dipping a little toe into BSG fan fic. Finally, finally, finally, however, here I am. I wrote this piece literally fifteen minutes after watching Episode One of Season Three. I was terribly excited (and rather worried!) and to celebrate penned this stuff. The whole Leoben and Kara thing is both dead fascinating and dead disturbing. Enjoy the oddball thoughts… it's written from Leoben's point of view (knowing what I knew after watching Episode 3.01), because his thought patterns are curious to me in an octopus-ish kind of way.

* * *

**The Art of Dying**

* * *

_'Though they go mad they shall be sane, _

_Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; _

_Though lovers shall be lost love shall not; _

_And death shall have no dominion.' _

- Dylan Thomas, 'And death shall have no dominion', 1939.

* * *

Breathe. 

Pause. Stop. Eat.

Breathe.

Look. Think. Feel.

Die.

Breathe.

Table set for two beneath pale honeyed light, and all around you the quiet of dusk fall, the calmness of darkness, the unreachable, unbreakable, unbendable nothing of helplessness. A soul screams silent; is it yours? What is it about the human heart that makes it so willing to wallow in the depths of its pain? Darkness around us, darkness emanating from you, but I speak not of it, for I love. You, you speak not of it, for you barely speak at all. What does that silence mean? How should I interpret it? Lend me your mind, lend me your thoughts, let me inside to untangle the knots that you bind about yourself and your sacred spirit.

You think you are a warrior. Is that it, then, all of how you see yourself? I know you are brave. But I also observe the shell you hide in and know it is not you. I see patterns within patterns. Why do burrow beneath a psychology that is not yours? Why do you deny the truth as I know it? My truth, our truth, the truth that must be whole and total, whole and complete, to have earned itself the name. You think in half-truths, in truths that can be interpreted one way or another, in truths that change colours depending on the view-point – but none of them, none of them are truth. Truth is a whole, a wonder, a thing that surpasses time, and space, and small perspectives. Why do you deny it?

Why do you leave me sitting here in my patience, eyes upon yours across the table, listening to the song of your fork scraping your plate? I listen to your heart beating; not broken as you would believe, but pulsing, pounding, pushing along despite the fact that you think your world has ended. The world does not end because the soil beneath our feet alters. The world does not end because the air as we inhale has changed. Caprica is gone; you are still here. The _Galactica _is gone; you are still here. Your mother is gone; you are still here. He is gone; you are still here. Here and with me and I listen to the tune of your body as you eat and walk inside your thoughts.

That small bittersweet look without direction – that way that your eyes light as you tip them up to me – that manner in which the edges of your lips shift shapes into a smile that is not a smile – what does it mean, does it mean anything, are you conditioning me for my end again? How is that you connect the word _thank-you _to the time of my death? What drives you to make me like a dog with a command, drives you to imprint the knowledge in my mind that when I see that quiet look of solemnity, and hear those words on your lips, your lips, I know that it is time to expect the darkness wrapping soft hands around me. Why connect _thank-you _to the familiar warm jab of blade in throat, or some other passage, some other path to God and the rivers of un-life, the seas of un-made. What forces you weave that bond between us? Why do you pull the shroud about me with such sweet stillness? Kara…?

Breathe.

Pause. Stop. Eat.

Breathe.

Look. Think. Feel.

Die.

Breathe.

I forgive you.

I love you.

_Breathe_.


End file.
